


choke on my heart (your favorite meal)

by InkedConstellations



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Angry Yuri Plisetsky, Angst, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, Oblivious Otabek Altin, Protective Yuri Plisetsky, Viktor not so much, Yuuri and Viktor just want to be good dads, Yuuri gives the best advice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2018-12-04 07:41:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11550633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkedConstellations/pseuds/InkedConstellations
Summary: Yuri Plisetsky hates flowers, a certain dramatic skater's advice, and showing weakness of any kind. He also thinks dying for love is stupid. In fact, the whole notion of love is a bit ridiculous.Too bad he's stuck with all of it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hanahaki--the disease borne of unrequited love, where a flower grows in your throat. Either it kills you, you earn your loves heart, or you have the Surgery, forgetting everything about the person you love in the process.
> 
> This story will be a series of short chapters, each chapter a scene. Rated for Yuri's mouth--he never really grows out of using bad language

Yuri has never been so angry as he is right now.

Anger is a familiar burn to him, something that used to linger in his bones so that every time he moved the heat of it scorched the air around him. Over the years that burn has grown cooler, calmer, and through the anger management classes Katsudon made him take Yuri has grudgingly grown embarrassed of his fifteen year old self. But that does not mean he has forgotten what it feels like, and Yuri recognizes the shake in his hands as his vision blurs red at the edges, staring at the single flower petal resting in his bathroom sink.

The petal itself is rather unassuming. Its perfect, the edges a smooth, unbroken oval, peaked at one end. Its also yellow, louder than Yuri's hair and glaringly obvious against the white porcelain basin. The remarkable thing is how it got there, and Yuri brushes a single finger over his bottom lip in disbelief. His throat is still slightly sore and he coughs once more, as if the feeling will fade with repetition. The next second his fist crashes into the sink, the burn of his knuckles splitting open not enough to distract Yuri from the tears slipping down his cheeks as he glares at that stupid flower, a bright yellow sign of his own traitorous heart.

He crushes the thing and flushes it, telling himself it isn't fear making his breath catch as he struggles through breathing exercises again, and again, loses count and tries again, again, again. Its just that he really fucking hates the color yellow.


	2. Chapter 2

Otabek is not an option, Yuri reminds himself, hand hovering over the contacts on his phone. Otabek can't know, not when he's twenty-four and gunning for what could be his last Grand Prix, ready to leave the competitive circuit after a few bad falls this past year. Otabek needs to be perfect if he wants to win, Yuri needs to be perfect if he wants to meet his best friend in the rink. Yuri feels the burn of determination in his throat and rubs the skin absently, wondering at how it doesn't feel any different. The bandages he's wrapped around his split knuckles with shaking fingers scrape against his skin and he shivers.

Yuri calls the gross couple instead, rubbing his palm into his chest where the ache lingers. Retirement had made the lovebirds worse, and Yuri dreads listening to the disgusting sounds of flirting sure to occupy the first thirty seconds. Or maybe not, if Viktor doesn't answer Yuuri's phone. Yuuri may encourage Viktor in his foolishness, but he was always the reasonable one. Maybe Yuri won't have to talk to Viktor at all.

Of course Viktor does answer the phone. It's exactly as terrible as Yuri knew it would be.

"Yurio!" He cries, and Yuri swears he can see the sparkles from St. Petersburg. "We just got back from class at the Ice Castle, Yuuri's got some absolutely  _adorable_ students this year! Not as adorable as him, obviously, but they just adore my Yuuri already. Who wouldn't, right Yurio? I know you act rough, but you love him too, I know. My Yuuri could win anyone over, even that one obnoxious fellow from Canada, what was his name? Jacob?"

There's the muffled sound of Katsudon in the background and Viktor pauses for a second before his voice begins again. "Oh JJ, yes, him."

Yuri just grits his teeth against the onslaught of words, hearing Katsudon's embarrassed yelp on the other end of the line mixed with Makkachin's old, tired barking. Otabek is not an option. "Viktor."

"Oh but I'm so very happy to hear from you, Yurio, I've missed you so much." The idiot rambles on, as if Yuri hadn't even spoken.

"Viktor." He tries again.

"Yuuri! Our son called us, I'm so happy I might cry-"

Deep breaths, Yuri reminds himself. Deep breaths. "Viktor Idiot-forov listen to people when they talk to you, goddammit--" And suddenly Yuri is coughing. Not  _too_ deep breaths then. Objectively, he knows it sounds terrible. It's a deep, hacking thing that pulls from the pit of his stomach to his shaking shoulders. But all Yuri can concentrate on is the feel of it, heavy and wet and burning as something scrapes its way up his throat to spit into his cupped hands. It wasn't this painful the first time, why does it hurt so much now?

He stares at the petals, two this time, clumped against his fingers. One is the same disgusting yellow as before, the other orangish and specked. No blood, yet. All he can hear is the ragged heave of his own breath and a terrible silence on the other end of the line.


	3. Chapter 3

If fear had a sound, it would be this: the slow thud of Yuri's heartbeat, the wheezing ache of his breath, and the heavy ringing in his ears that almost drowns out Viktor's voice, smaller than Yuri has ever heard it before.

"Yuri? Are you sick? Do...do you need Yuuri and I to come help you?"

After a moment Yuri shakes his head, despite Viktor being unable to see, and rasps "Just put Katsudon on the phone already. I waste breath talking to you."

It doesn't come out as tough as he wants, especially since his throat closes strangely in the middle of the sentence, but Viktor doesn't comment. He's eerily quiet, which hurts in a way his dramatic gasps of mock indignation never did.

In fact, Viktor doesn't say anything at all.

There's just a muffled thud and then Yuuri's voice is in Yuri's ear, soft and tinged with worry. "What's wrong, Yuri? What did you say to him? I haven't seen Viktor than upset since I vomited almost an entire bouquet onto his shoes."

His voice lifts up at the end, like he's trying to make a joke. "But of course, _that's_ not your problem, right, Yuri?" he teases.

Yuri can't find it in himself to even try to laugh, curling his neatly trimmed fingernails into his palm. Of course, Viktor would know that cough. It must be the same one, the same thick, hacking retch Katsudon developed. Yuri's fingers brush his throat and he swallows hard at the echo of the pain. He can't answer, its been too long since he said anything and the silence stretched out.

But Katsudon understands anyway, if the quiet gasp on the other end of the line indicates anything. Yuri can hear him begin to cry, the soft, shaking gasps he makes when he doesn't want anyone to know he's upset echoing in Yuri's empty room and Yuri still can't say anything. Viktor's voice is in the background, slowly getting louder and more anxious, but Yuri ignores it in favor of waiting for Katsudon to respond. He waits for the pity, the judgement, the shame for letting his heart run away from himself, but when Katsudon speaks, Yuri forgets why he expected any of that to begin with.

"Oh Yuri...we'll fly to St. Petersburg tomorrow. Viktor can stay at the hotel, I'll come visit you alone if you want, but for now why don't we just talk like this? And after I'll call Nikolai to bring you some pirozhki, okay?"

Yuri lets out a shaky breath in one giant rush, nodding into the phone. This is why he called them. Katsudon always knows, somehow. "No, its okay. If he comes. He can listen. If he wants to."

Yuri pulls his cat Potya to his chest and tells them everything.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haha i'm bad at updating I'm so sorry

It all comes back to this.

The pounding in his ears, from anger or adrenaline, pushing against his temples, and how cold he is even when his heart is beating so fast and his cheeks are burning. The warmth of Otabek's hand on his shoulder and that tiny moment when he murmurs Yuri's name, gives the smallest of smiles and pulls Yuri back to earth.

It's the smiles that undo him, the tiny tick of Otabek's lips in an otherwise expressionless face. It isn't that Otabek himself is emotionless, he just doesn't show them often. He's silent, stoic in a way that balances Yuri's brashness perfectly and makes them such good friends. And yet he smiles. At Yuri. For Yuri. He doesn't know, doesn't care, as long as he's the only one who sees it. And he  _is_. Those moments, when Otabek lets himself smile, are Yuri's treasure.

And to hear him laugh. Otabek's whole frame shakes with it, warm and solid and thick against Yuri's ears in a way that makes Yuri's stomach heavy with contentment. He's never loved anything the way he loves Otabek's laugh, except maybe his Dedushka's Katsudon pirozhki. It's like the whole world is centered on that sound, and it pulls Yuri together, keeps him from flying apart at the seams.

Otabeks praises him when he skates, voice deep and steady even when Yuri throws himself at the taller skater, weight balancing the two of them out with ease as he presses his fingers into Yuri's shoulder and tells him "You did a good job, Yura."

Nothing more, nothing less. Just those five words, and his name.

He gives thumbs up and listens to Yuri's rants and nods slowly in agreement, tells him "Udachi", good luck, with that small smile and pushes him onto the ice, pulls him away from a fight, rubs his shoulders after a hard day and laughs when he beats Yuri at video games. He messes up in the kitchen and orders take-out when Yuri messes up even worse, lets Potya sit on his head and delivers terrible puns with the straightest face Yuri has ever seen, so it leaves him hunched over and cackling.

He's just  _there_ , in the best of ways, even when they're training in completely different countries and can only talk over Skype or FaceTime.

It all comes back to this:

The last time they met, Yuri tripped on the sidewalk, too wrapped up in whatever story he was telling and hands too busy animatedly acting things out to catch himself, and Otabek caught his hand. In his surprise, Yuri doesn't even thank Otabek for saving the knees of his favorite tiger-print leggings, just gapes as Otabek taps his forehead with a finger and tells him to be more careful.

It all comes back to this:

Yuri wishing he knew what this hollow feeling in his heart is and a dream about the two of them lying on the couch together, the same as always but different, because Yuri is in Otabek's lap and this time, Otabek doesn't let go of Yuri's hand.

Three days later, Otabek is gone, and Yuri starts coughing flowers.

He tells Katsudon everything, in a quiet, quiet voice over the phone, and if he cries, just a little, than Katsudon doesn't say anything. He just listens, and for now, in this small moment of vulnerability, it is enough.


	5. Chapter 5

It's been less than twenty-four hours since Yuri started vomiting flowers. Nine hours and twenty-seven minutes, if he were being exact. Nine hours and twenty-seven minutes to contemplate exactly what this meant, three of those hours spent whispering into a phone and hearing Katsudon on the other end of the line. Yuri hates to admit it, but the pig has a comforting voice, soft and smooth and rounded at the edges where Russian would be hard. And it had helped to have that voice in his ear, telling him he would be okay, even if both of them knew perfectly fucking well Hanahaki was a shitstorm for everyone involved.

Nine hours and twenty-seven minutes to practice the breathing exercises Katsudon had given him and look up different kinds of herbal teas, comparing what he could find at the local market to the list he's written in cramped, pointed letters. Chamomile for his throat, yerba mate to help calm himself, peppermint to keep his lungs feeling light even when they were being filled, ever so slowly, with foreign leaves of affection.

Nine hours and twenty-seven minutes to think about Otabek, and how Yuri can't tell him (even though Yuri usually tells him everything. Even though the one thing Yuri wants most in the entire world is to call Otabek and have him drive his motorcycle all the way from Kazakhstan, because he would, he would take off practice for however long it took, and fold Yuri in a hug and tell him everything would be alright. Even though Yuri can't help but imagine the fondness he saw sometimes in Otabek's smile and hope, just a little, Otabek might feel the same way.)

Nine hours and twenty-seven minutes to list all the reasons why it would be a bad idea to tell Otabek anyways, not the least of which being that Yuri would hate to cost him precious practice time. Not the least of which being the quiet voice in the back of his head thinking that maybe Otabek wouldn't come even if Yuri told him, which was ridiculous. It murmured in tones softer than Katsudon's voice, _he doesn't love you that way, never will, who would_ and Yuri doesn't quite have to heart to shut it down as being slightly less ridiculous. Yuri needs to focus on his own programs anyways.

He's gotten to the rink six hours later than he was meant to, his phone filled with thirty missed calls from Yakov growing progressively angrier, fifteen teasing, five upset, and a single worried text from Mila, the YouTube update for two of Otabek's new song mixes, and the emailed receipt from Yuuri and Viktor's flight tickets into St. Petersburg scheduled for next Wednesday. He answers none of Yakov's questions, just laces up his skates and glides onto the ice, body creaking. Nine hours and twenty-seven minutes. And yet it feels like so much longer.

Yuri does a lazy turn on the ice, and coughs absently, feeling a slight burn as his throat itches.

****

Nine hours and twenty-eight minutes.


	6. Chapter 6

Practice is torture. Yuri doesn’t know how he’d managed before, but he imagines it was easier.

The sore limbs and labored breathing are nothing new, even when Yuri carefully stretches his limbs in front of him, reaching, reaching, reaching. Trying to go farther than his body will let him in every tightly strung motion. There’s a scraping in his lungs, now, the feel of something he can’t name rubbing against his tongue and he coughs. Yuri doesn’t mind it, though. Skaters are used to being out of breath.

The ice steals everything from you, if you don’t give it everything first. The air from Yuri’s lungs, the strength from his legs, the hollowed out bones of his ankles, these are small prices to pay for the way he can bend himself into beauty. Only on the ice can he be everything he was ever meant to be, and Yuri loves it as much as he hates it. He hates every shortcoming in his skating, throws himself into practice with a passion, trying to skate every little piece of his wavering, splintered heart out onto the ground as if it will etch some form of resolve into his chest. The ice is the steadiest thing he knows, but it’s hard to concentrate when his throat is seized by thoughts of Otabek and his stomach heaves as though he’s about to vomit every time Yuri lowers into a spin, the newfound tremble in his fingers almost letting his foot slip from his grasp. The world tilts with him when he tilts forward and raises his leg in a nearly flawless Ina Bauer, hoping the line of his body will make straight lines of the tangled mess inside his head. Yuri needs to pull himself together, the ice is waiting, but he can’t seem to focus long enough to work on his routine.

Ice is a living thing, Yuri knows, he’s reminded of it every time he steps into the rink and feels his ankles wobble underneath him. He sees it in every triple lutz and step sequence Viktor throws himself into, twisting the ground beneath his feet into something that dances with him. Yuri bends, presses his fingers to the cold of his skates to see if he can find where metal meets ice, where boy meets art, and breathes. There’s nothing like the air in an ice rink, a feeling that smells like crisp, clean apples and mint, a sharpness on his tongue that Yuri carves into his body just as his feet carve words on the ice. He has been beating this sharpness into himself since he was a child at ballet lessons, tying tiny blades onto tiny feet for the first time and finding himself in the pain across his knees when he falls. He hits the ice hard, knees aching, over and over, and Yakov shouts at him from across the rink to bend farther, lift his leg more, stretch his arms slightly to the left for a better line and Yuri falls again going into a double toe loop, such a simple thing that he knows the ice must be punishing him for his disloyalty. Yakov asks him what is wrong with his head and Yuri almost laughs before starting again. 

Yuri tells himself he never dances pairs because ice is the only partner he needs, he can only depend on himself to find the height of talent and ability. He can’t quite believe it the way he used to, when he was younger and ice skating was so expensive, but his Dedushka was so kind and never mentioned the cost of Yuri’s smiles. The ice isn’t his everything anymore, not the way it was when his parents were gone and there was nothing beside him but the barre of a ballet studio and the sting left by peeling his warm fingertips from his skates, angry bruises and skin rubbed raw by the pull of new leather and plastic against his skin. The ice speaks to him in the language of sacrifice, something familiar he learned to speak when he was young and Yuri trusts it now as he trusted it then, small and wary and waiting to learn, as it whispers choreography. A spin here, a triple flip there. He writes a piece of music in his head and throws it out.

The ice isn’t his everything anymore, but it’s all he can trust. Yuri falls and it’s there, waiting for him, scrapes his elbows raw and puts a creak in his hip before pushing him to the sky. Ignoring the burn of his lungs as he heaves, coughs, wipes a petal from his lips before Mila can see, Yuri turns to Yakov, determination searing through the stalks growing in his throat and declares, “Yakov. I’m changing my program. I have a better idea.”

Yakov sputters, hand dropping from his chin as he slowly turns red. “Yuri, you haven’t even gotten this program down, look at how you’re flailing on the ice. We don’t have time to build something new, the season starts--”

“I know when the season starts, old man. I’ve already decided, now bring me paper. We need new music.” Yuri seals his command with a glare, fist curled on his hip like he already knows Yakov will cave to his demands, like he always does, if not with loud amounts of grumbling and declarations of stress being bad for his heart.

Kneading his forehead with thick fingers, Yakov sighs, eyes sliding shut in resignation as he tries to calm himself. Mila chooses this moment to lift a younger skater over her head like the gorilla woman she is, and Georgi lets out a particularly loud wail, and Yakov buries his face in his hands, grumbling, “You’ll be the death of me, all of you.” He lifts his head to meet Yuri’s gaze. “Fine. Give me the choreography by next week. If it isn’t finished then, we stay with this program. It’s not like we’ve made much progress anyways.”

Yuri simply nods, feeling the pull of his muscles and the way something deep inside his chest throbs with every breath as he skates for the wall of the rink. He stretches his limbs carefully, endlessly, reaching, reaching, reaching. Trying to go farther than his heart will let him in every brush of his eyelashes against his cheek, Yuri wants to figure out how to put the feeling of Otabek’s hand on his waist into motion. 

He will use the language of the ice to speak, be damned if no one understands him. This feeling is nothing new. Yuri is always reaching, reaching, reaching, with the burn of leaves in his throat, for something he cannot touch.


	7. Chapter 7

Yuri was listening through songs on YouTube when his Skype ringtone went off.

Potya let out an elderly mewl of concern as Yuri startled. He jumped, an ungodly, strangled wail leaping from his throat only to be stopped by a petal leaping into his throat. A few seconds of panicked gasping later, throat raw and spit trailing from his lips, Yuri could breathe again. He made a face at the wilted petals laying on his desk, spit slicked and torn and stuck out his tongue.

“Gross.” Hurriedly scooping them into his palm and out of sight of his computer camera, Yuri clicked to answer the call, glancing at the clock.

10 pm, St.Petersburg time, and a lovely 8 in the morning for Otabek, their normal time on Saturday evenings, since it was the one day Yuri could stay up late enough to talk and Otabek didn’t have to rush to practice. Yuri may not be religious, but he loved Sunday mornings. Of course. He’d lost track of time with the music. Within seconds, Otabek’s face filled his screen and Yuri had to keep himself from coughing as he pulled in a breath too quickly. He could feel petals vibrating against his larynx when he spoke a casual greeting and swallowed hard.

God, why was it so much harder to look at him now that Yuri had figured out his feelings? He was the same as always, carmel skin and warm eyes and the slightest hint of a smirk at the corner of his lips, the brightest thing in an otherwise expressionless face. Why were the smallest details catching his attention so easily? There was nothing new to look at, but Yuri found himself drifting in their conversation more often than usual.  

Everyone paid attention to his words, how quietly and how seldom he spoke, especially when compared to Yuri, but anyone with half a bean’s worth of brains watched Otabek’s eyebrows. They were where he really held conversations--the way they were tilted or pulled together ever so slightly as Yuri showed off his newest bruises held entire conversations. You had to be watching to understand him, a challenge Yuri relished.

Beka’s excited about his newest mix, that smile is slightly wider.

Beka’s worried about Yuri in practice--a quiet admonishment to be more careful and the easing of tension in his shoulders at Yuri’s reassurance that he’s not so fragile--they’ll meet on the ice, and Beka’d better be in top form.

Beka’s bothered by his program this year, they way his eyebrows draw together says he doesn’t know how to up the difficulty, feels limited by his role as Kazakhstan’s Hero.

Beka’s left knee is hurting him again, he shifts to stretch it when he sits and probably hasn’t iced it yet.

Beka was feeling lazy this morning, he still hadn’t shaved and his hair was tangled, sleep shirt clinging to his shoulders in the most appealing way, and when he ran his fingers through his bangs, Yuri could see the smallest scar on his left temple, from where he’d caught Yuri once during practice and Yuri’s skates had clipped him, drawing blood, and if they were in the same room, instead of 10 hours and hundreds of miles apart then Yuri could take Otabek’s face in his hands and kiss the mark, apologizing in a way he hadn’t been able to then. God, if they were in the same room, if only they were closer, if only Yuri could hug Otabek this would all feel so much better, Beka wouldn’t even know what was wrong but he would hold Yuri so perfectly, until he could square his shoulders and be the Ice Tiger again, and Yuri wanted that so _badly --_

he choked on his own spit mid-word and bent over coughing.

 

He swallowed and choked and the flowers came back

 

He swallowed and bit his tongue in refusal to lose against his own body but the flowers came back

 

And Yuri’s shoulders shook as he heaved, bent over as far as he could because Otabek _couldn’t see he can’t see_ but Otabek’s voice is in his ear calling his name over and over and Yuri vomited a tangled mess of leaves and petals, a dull, mangled yellow flower mixing with bile on his bedroom floor and _can’t let Otabek know_ so he wiped his mouth with shaking fingers before raising his head.

Otabek, bless him, looked the most concerned Yuri has ever seen him, and a twinge of guilt strikes in his heart before Yuri smothers it, wraps both hands around the feeling and chokes it to death. This is for the best.

“What’s wrong, Yura? Should I call Yakov to come get you?”

“I’m fine, Beka. Just ate something that disagreed with me earlier. I’m taking it easy this weekend, I’ll be a hundred by Monday. Forget about me and work on your programs, it’s almost time for you to head out and you aren’t even dressed.” Yuri threw the hardest glare he could muster through the screen, but couldn’t keep his eyes from softening at the fond look he caught crossing Otabek’s face as he agrees.

* * *

Yuri stared at the blank Skype screen for a moment before clicking out of the little “Call Ended” notification. What the fuck was he going to do?

He closed his eyes and sighed, tired fingers rubbing his eyelids with one hand while the other reached out to turn on his playlist again. He would have to clean his carpet before it stiffened, that’s what the fuck he would start with. A tickle started up in his throat and Yuri coughed absently, slumping back in his chair as the music started to play again, drifting quietly through his bedroom. Yuri only half listened to the lyrics as he thought about his theme for the year: something softer than what he was known for, something quiet, at least for his Short Program. Something for Otabek.

Suddenly the words of the song playing popped out at him, as if in bold.

_I found love where it wasn’t supposed to be_

_right in front of me_

_talk some sense to me._

 

Perfect.


End file.
